Can you hear it? Oh, can you, dear?
Hear the Mockingbird, oh hear.
Or is it just the image of a silly old fool,
with her mind wound round a sturdy spool?
Oh, hear it there, oh hear it here,
my sculling heart caught in a weir.
How can I enjoy these pretty sound,
when sharp deceit is well abound?
Of whom do you sing when you alarm?
Or do you rather use that pretty charm,
to keep us in sweet, sweet wonder,
or . . .
My, how fast time flies,
can you believe?
It steals it right away.
For a moment’s reprieve . . .